


A Significant Man

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Dark, Gen, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cavalry, John realised with a certainty that made him feel sick, wasn’t coming. Or if it did it wouldn’t be in time to do any good, which amounted to the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Significant Man

**Author's Note:**

> I've done some reworking of this, enough that it's worth mentioning rather than quietly editing. I tried to preserve the original as Chapter 2 but failed miserably, so if you want to read the original it's [here](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/8684.html) for a while.
> 
> Written for this prompt on SherlockBBC-fic: He knows he isn't worth this. He would never want to be worth this.
> 
> Please heed the warnings.

John Watson is a patient man. So, when Moriarty finds him, he knows all he has to do is wait. Sherlock will figure it out, eventually.

That, right there, is the problem with Sherlock. He always does figure it out, eventually, can never leave well enough alone and just— just leave it _alone_ , damn him.

It seemed that Jim Moriarty had become quite enamoured of John during the brief time they’d spent together, prior to the “Semtex” vest that turned out, ultimately, not to have been explosive at all. The fact that this might have contributed to their current predicament—-might have led them to underestimate what Moriarty was capable of-—is something John has been trying not to think about.

He’s been having less success with that as of late.

To be accurate, what Jim had become enamoured of was the _idea_ of John, the role he played in Sherlock’s life. John thought he was, frankly, jealous. Sherlock had a heart, and it turned out to be not a weakness but a benefit; Jim wanted to experience that benefit for himself, almost as much as he wanted to take it away from Sherlock.

John understands this with a hopeless clarity that makes him want to knock his own head against the wall in frustration.

Jim is nothing if not a planner. This one was straightforward enough. He’d employed one of the nurses at Bart’s (blackmail, John supposed, but he might not ever know for sure) to prick the back of John’s hand with a sedative right before he was scheduled to leave for the evening. John had helpfully cooperated by blacking out at his desk behind the closed door of his office twenty minutes later. He didn’t know how they transported him out of the clinic, but such details seemed to matter less and less.

He’d come to himself in a narrow, windowless room and wasn’t surprised to see Jim leaning against the doorway when he opened his eyes.

He’d wanted something, of course. John couldn’t remember the exact conditions—he’d been trying very hard not to listen at all, trying to use his soldier’s training to block out the lilting voice and come up with a plan, but his head was still fuzzy and he couldn’t quite seem to get his feet sorted out enough to stand--but what Jim had presented was, in essence, a demand to join him. John refused categorically, to the surprise of precisely no one.

Threats were implied, then specified, then carried out against his person. Fists, mostly. And boots. John hadn’t cared much for it, but he was growing accustomed to pain, so he also wasn’t terribly impressed.

Clearly Jim couldn’t kill him—-not if he wanted John for himself, _you’ve rather shown your hand there, Jim_ —-so John knew all he had to do was wait it out. He’d become appallingly hazy on the notion of time, but he though he’d likely been there a few days before Sherlock appears.

And that, _that_ , was when the situation became rather distressingly worse.

 

* * *

Sherlock stands in the doorway to the small room, Jim crowding close behind him. Sherlock is holding his body carefully, warily still, only the frenetic movement of his eyes betraying his agitation as he takes in the scene: John, skin dark with dirt and bruises, sitting against the far wall; the heavy chain leading from it to his ankle. John wonders if Sherlock could tell from that distance that it had been soldered in place around his limb, or whether he’s hoping to be able to pick some nonexistent lock.

Sherlock is attempting to play to Jim’s ego by addressing him rather than John. “He’s not hurt, then,” he says, and John gives a small nod. “I’ve played your game, I’ve won, now let—-”

“Tsk tsk,” Jim interrupts him. “You didn’t really think I’d tell you _all_ the rules, did you, my dear? So many things the _pawn_ doesn’t need to know.”

John lets out a shout, but it comes too late; Jim’s arm swings in a wide arc and brings the butt of a pistol down behind Sherlock’s ear. He takes a rapid step backward but doesn’t quite manage to avoid the spray of blood as Sherlock’s body crumples to the floor.

“So arrogant,” Jim says for John’s benefit, gazing down at Sherlock’s unconscious form. “He always thinks it’s about _him_ , doesn’t he?”

 

* * *

It’s perhaps the sheer amount of preparation that has clearly gone into this that worries John the most.

Well, that’s not strictly true. There’s a great deal about the situation that worries John. But it’s evident that Jim has been gleefully anticipating this, has mustered his psychopathic resources and organised the whole scenario down to the last detail, and John isn’t quite sure how to go about outsmarting someone whose brain works by such twisted, serpentine rules.

Not that he’s in any particular position to act, even if he could figure out what to do.

Almost as soon as Sherlock goes down, two men appeared carrying a wide table. They place it on the far side of the room, its nearest edge about five yards from the farthest point John can reach. They hoist Sherlock onto it and roughly tug hs body into position, extending his limbs at precise forty-five degree angles; Jim personally straps him down at ankles, thighs, hips, wrists, and throat, threading leather straps through holes in the wood surface. He lets his fingers play over Sherlock’s arm and grins at John as one of the other men slides under the table to buckle them there, securing each strap in place with a small padlock.

Dread settles like acid in the pit of John’s stomach.

He shouts and threatens and tugs at the chain. It’s futile and he knows it. He’s largely ignored, apart from the manic glances Jim occasionally shoots his way.

One of the men presses thick cloth pads to Sherlock’s eyes which are then held in place by gaffer tape, wrapped around and around his head, tugging at the dark curls.

“We can’t have _all_ our fun now.” Jim is practically bouncing on his heels with glee. “But oh, you’re going to like this part, Johnny. It’s going to make everything so _interesting_ for him, don’t you think?”

There’s a needle glinting in his hand. John can’t take his eyes from it as Jim approaches the table. He snakes out a hand to grasp Sherlock’s hair and roughly turns his head to the side, causing the tendons to stand out along the pale throat. With a sick grin at John, he slides the needle into Sherlock’s exposed ear with a quick, stabbing motion. A thin rivulet of blood oozes out when Jim turns Sherlock’s head to expose the other side.

“I can’t have him hearing you, of course,” Jim is explaining in a voice so reasonable-sounding it makes the hair on John’s neck prickle. “That would take all the fun out of it. But I can’t gag you. I want to hear what you have to say, dear Johnny. Do you want to know what that will be?” He turns the full force of his smile on John; the gleam of his teeth is nauseating. “You’re going to ask me to stop. Then you’re going to beg me to continue. Then,” he continues, his eyes widening, “you’re going to show me that you’re mine. You’re going to beg me to let you kill him yourself.”

Another jab, another rivulet of blood from Sherlock’s other ear. John feels his back slide down the rough wall as he sinks to the floor.

 

* * *

They’re left alone for a while, after that.

John can’t take his eyes off the thin line of dried blood extending downward from Sherlock’s ear. There is a damp, sticky patch in his hair from where the butt of the gun connected, and John knows he should be more concerned about things like concussion and skull fracture, but somehow the needle feels more devious, more intimate.

 _They heal, eardrums heal_ , he tells himself over and over, trying to ignore the voice in his head that counters with _not always_ and wonders if either of them would even have that much time.

John doesn’t know how much time passes before he hears the small groan and sees the stiffening of muscle that mean Sherlock is regaining consciousness. However long it’s been John wishes it had been longer, wishes he could spare him what’s coming.

John can practically hear the thoughts whirring in Sherlock’s head. He’s holding himself still in an effort to feign unconsciousness a while longer, buying himself some time to gather more information.

Suddenly Sherlock jerks against the restraints, turns his head to the side and vomits weakly off the side of the table. _Concussion, then_ , says the medical part of John’s brain, and he presses the back of his head against the wall behind him in helpless fury.

Sherlock is still trying to spit the taste of bile out of his mouth when the door opens and Jim sidles through it. Sherlock stiffens as the air from the corridor hits his body; John wonders how much he remembered, whether he’s been able to situate himself in his own mind or if he’s lying in the silence and darkness without any idea how or why he’s come there.

Jim cups a hand to Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock immediately whips his head around, teeth bared in a snarl, trying to bite him. Jim jumps back, laughing. “Naughty, naughty,” he says, looking at John as he fists his hand in the dark curls and twists cruelly, pulling Sherlock’s head up so the leather strap cuts into his throat. “Guess someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” He releases his grip and Sherlock’s head hits the table with an audible thump, causing his hands to jerk convulsively and eliciting a strangled groan that makes Jim giggle.

John had promised himself days ago that he wouldn’t let Jim get a rise out of him. He had some vague notion that doing so might push Jim to deviate from his carefully-made plan and make a mistake, create an opportunity for John to act. _Play along if you have to but for god’s sake don’t give him anything_. There was a chance Sherlock had contacted Lestrade or someone at the Met, or that Mycroft knew where he was going. Prolonging things bought them time for the arrival of the cavalry.

John would have liked nothing more in that moment than to lunge across the room and bash Moriarty’s own head against the wall until his psychopathic little brain squirmed out of his skull. The chain on his ankle and the other men outside made such action, respectively, impossible and inadvisable. He forces himself to remain where he is, trying not to hate himself for not just _doing something_ , however useless and ultimately foolish it may be, pressing his balled fists against the hard floor.

“You’ve disappointed me, Jim. I never would have pegged you for a cheater.” Sherlock’s voice doesn’t really sound like his, low and cracked and breathy, but John is unspeakably relieved to hear the twist of mockery in his tone. After a pause, he goes on. “I hope at least John—-”

His voice is cut off abruptly. Jim has one hand back in Sherlock’s hair and the other is pinching his nostrils and clamping shut his jaw, cutting off his air supply.

Despite his earlier resolve John finds himself on his feet, hears his own voice shouting. He can see Sherlock struggling against the straps, fighting for air, Jim’s fingers in his hair preventing him from turning his head to get away. Jim is leaning in, whispering things in Sherlock’s ear that John is glad neither of them can hear. His eyes never leave John’s face, the expression in them so dark and obscene it’s almost pornographic.

Finally, _finally_ , as Sherlock’s body starts to slacken toward unconsciousness, Jim releases his grip. John watches Sherlock’s chest heave as he gasps and coughs, spitting blood from a bitten tongue. Jim straightens his spine and cups his hand over Sherlock’s ear, administering a vicious slap that makes Sherlock’s next breath catch in his chest.

Jim moves to lean against the wall and slouches there, hands in his pockets. “How touching,” he says, the irony dripping sickeningly from his voice. “So worried about his pet. And so sweetly _wrong_ , isn’t he? How are you going to reward him for his loyalty, Johnny?”

”Whatever you think this is going to accomplish, it won’t work.” John grits his teeth, fighting to keep his tone even.

”Won’t it, my dear?”

John glances at Sherlock. He’s pressing his palms against the table, his chest and throat still heaving convulsively. John tries to imagine what he would say, were their positions reversed. “You don’t know him as well as you think. He’s not going to break; in his line of work, it’s your average Tuesday.”

Jim’s face goes through a remarkable, mercurial transformation. “It’s not about _him_!” he roars, pushing himself off the wall, and seemingly from nowhere ( _from his pocket_ , says the small portion of John’s brain still capable of such thought) the blade of a knife is gleaming in his hand. The hand flicks out and John hears the rip of cloth and Sherlock’s startled shout; it feels like an eternity passes before he sees the line of blood spring out along Sherlock’s calf, rapidly darkening the leg of his trousers.

It’s the casualness of the gesture that frightens John most, gives him the uncomfortable rush of vertigo; the offhand infliction of violence committed on a whim, on whatever happens to be nearest at hand. John clenches his jaw, determined to keep his mouth shut until he can better gauge Jim’s reaction to his words. Watching Sherlock struggle to regain control of his breath, John wonders if he might be thinking the same thing.

”You haven’t been paying attention, Johnny,” Jim says in a tone that is dangerously conversational. “None of this is for _his_ benefit at all. It’s all for you, my dear.” Again, that sickening smile. “He’s here for you.”

He bends low over Sherlock and begins casually slicing around the straps holding him down, cutting off his clothing around the bonds. He’s pressing hard enough that the point of the knife dips into the pale skin, again and again. Sherlock has his head turned sharply to the side, breathing hard through his nose, nostrils flaring. John can see him pressing his lips together and stifling the urge to squirm away. Jim is almost grinning—-John half expects him to begin whistling at any moment, the damned bloody sadistic bastard—-as he slices at the cloth and the skin beneath, throwing the former into a messy heap near the door.

John wishes there were a way to reassure Sherlock, though even if Sherlock could hear him, John doesn’t know what he could say. _I’m here_ seems grossly inadequate when he would have to follow it with _and I can’t do a bloody thing to help you_.

Except that he could, of course.

John is pretty sure it’s a bad sign that his mind is already dredging up Jim’s earlier promise.

Finally Jim steps back, the long, pale body lying fully exposed on the table, streaked with tracks of red that shift and pool with every tiny movement. Jim smiles at John as he sets the knife, so carefully it almost appears an act of kindness, lengthways along the concavity of Sherlock’s stomach. The point comes to rest against the dip between his lowest ribs, just below the diaphragm, and John can see it drag against the skin each time Sherlock’s stomach expands on an inhale.

Jim walks around to Sherlock’s head and plants a kiss on his temple. Sherlock gives no reaction; John wonders if he even felt it. He hopes, fervently, that he hasn’t.

It seems that Jim is about to leave them. John would have liked to stand silently—-his earlier resolve demanded a show of impassivity at this juncture, he’s positive—-but his medical training just won’t allow it. “Wait.” His voice sounds hoarse and broken to his own ears.

Jim looks at him in surprise. “So soon, my dear?” He sounds almost disappointed.

John shakes his head, forcing himself to maintain eye contact, trying not to reveal how painful and humiliating he’s finding the situation. “He needs water. Just a little. For— the concussion. He’ll be sick again.” This last isn’t actually the most pressing reason, but John suspects he might have a bit more luck with that than appealing to Jim’s desire to spare Sherlock from the effects of dehydration on concussion. The puddle of vomit had long since dried, but he’d noticed Jim fastidiously avoiding it, and John thinks he might see the value in preventing a recurrence. His own mouth and throat are painfully dry, but he thinks it best not to mention it.

Jim’s eyes narrow. “I’m not stupid, Johnny boy,” he says, his voice dangerously low, “but since you asked. As a _favour_. To _you_.”

 

* * *

True to his word, it isn’t long before one of the minders (Eyebrows, as John had been calling him in his own mind) comes in with a bottle of water for Sherlock. Sherlock fights against it, at first, and there’s a brief period during which John is afraid the intent is to drown him. After a few minutes Eyebrows pinches Sherlock’s nose until he is forced to open his mouth, then dips his finger ( _filthy_ , John thinks idly, but doubts it really matters) into the bottle and rubs it on Sherlock’s tongue.

After that, Sherlock either relaxes or gives up; either way, he drinks thirstily. It’s an awkward affair, as Eyebrows has to help him lift his head to get a mouthful of water. Lifting his head too far brings his neck against the strap, which turns the whole process into an arduous balancing act between gravity and strangulation. By the time he finishes the bottle, Sherlock’s pale skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Eyebrows tosses another bottle to John on his way out, watching with amusement while John drains it in three long gulps.

Then they’re alone.

John moves as close to Sherlock as he can, trying to examine him with a clinical eye. Most of the cuts that decorate his body are fairly shallow; many have already begun to clot, and if John thinks he looks a little paler even than usual it might have been the concussion as much as the blood loss. The knife still rests infuriatingly on Sherlock’s stomach; his efforts in drinking the water hadn’t dislodged it, and it’s still scraping a deepening furrow in his skin which is bleeding freely.

It isn’t particularly cold in the room but John can see gooseflesh beginning to stand out on Sherlock’s long limbs. Shock, most likely. He’s feeling a bit shivery from reaction himself, come to that.

The thought has no more than entered his mind when his knees all but collapse under him. He sits abruptly onto the hard floor, shoves himself back to lean against the wall and buries his head in his hands.

It’s a completely absurd situation, on its face: here they are in the same room, himself relatively unencumbered, and still unable to help or communicate with Sherlock. John can imagine what lack of sight and sound would do to him, even without all the other factors; he can only imagine what thoughts must be rattling around in that brain, given the circumstances. The lines of Sherlock’s body are tense, the anxiety rolling off him in waves. He watches as Sherlock shifts awkwardly, hears his breath coming faster, can almost feel the force of will with which he slows it again.

He needs to think.

Patience is all well and good, if one had reason to suppose one’s situation were likely to improve with time. At the moment, however, John rather emphatically doesn’t.

He runs his fingers over the cuff on his ankle for what must be the thousandth time. There is the join where it had been soldered, smooth and unyielding as always. He lets his fingers make their way up the chain, toward the ring embedded in the wall itself.

Mortar, concrete. No budging that. As ever.

As his fingers slide back down toward the cuff, it dawns on him that he’s been focusing on the points of attachment and eliding the relevant part: the chain itself. It wouldn’t have been manufactured like this, he realises, not with the anchoring ring on one end and an open cuff on the other. Moriarty must have bought it in bits. There would be a join somewhere.

There. The first link from the wall. _Should have been obvious_ , John thinks, allowing himself the ghost of a smile.

A literal weak link.

He sits for what felt like half the night, turning it over in his fingers, trying to think what to do with that information. He twists the chain, watching as it shortens, coiling around itself. Wraps it around his wrist and uses what little leverage that gives to twist as far as he can to the right, then jerks on it a few more times in that direction, feeling the grind of the links against one another.

It accomplishes precisely nothing.

He keeps at it for as long as he dares, until his forearm is bruised and his ankle raw. John Watson is a patient man, and it’s the only thing he can think to do.

 

* * *

The next several days—-it may have been up to a week, but John doubts he will ever get the timeline pinned down precisely—-fractures into individual moments that twist and telescope, pile one on the next until everything seems to run in circles. Events that could only have happened once (the fingers, his hip) seem to happen over and over again; things that must have happened over several consecutive days ( _oh god_ , his feet) string together in one relentless sequence of constant pain and tears and hoarse screams.

 

***

The cavalry, John realises with a certainty that makes him feel sick, isn’t coming. Or if it does it won’t be in time to do any good, which amounts to the same thing.

 

***

Jim breaks Sherlock’s ribs, one by one, with a hammer, all down the left side of his body. For this, Sherlock is able to hold still, merely making small groaning noises and biting his lip until blood trickles down one cheek. Jim licks it off, slowly.

“Now now, dear. We mustn’t let him hurt himself.” He uses his knife to slice a long line across Sherlock’s bottom lip, layers of skin peeling open under their own tension, before leaning in close to kiss him. It’s a chaste, gentle kiss, and when he grins up at John his lips are smeared with Sherlock’s blood.

 

***

  


“Oh, he used to love his violin. Did you ever hear him play Barber, Johnny? So beautiful it would break your heart.” Jim’s voice is even as he places his thumb precisely on the back of Sherlock’s left hand, again and again, snapping each metacarpal in turn. “Such a shame.”

 

***

  


Jim is inserting a line ( _twelve_ ) of ordinary sewing needles ( _thirteen_ ) into the muscle of Sherlock’s right ( _fourteen_ ) calf, pushing them in slowly ( _fifteen_ ) until they disappear ( _sixteen_ ) beneath his skin. He ( _seventeen_ ) examines each one, ( _eighteen_ ) twisting it slowly, so that it glints ( _nineteen_ ) in the light. John tries, unsuccessfully, ( _twenty_ ) not to count them.

“Maybe I’ll let you take them out,” Jim says thoughtfully, but they aren’t removed at all.

 

* * *

 

_You’re going to ask me to stop._

Jim is slicing long, looping lines down the bottoms of Sherlock’s feet, from the base of each toe across the delicate arch to the heel. Each time the knife reaches the heel he digs the point savagely into the bone.

“Oh, Johnny boy,” Jim says, “I’ve signed it for you. Do come see if I’ve got it exact?”

John realises he’s carving his signature into the sole of Sherlock’s foot, “Dr Watson” writ over and over in blood and torn flesh. It’s the second time he’s done it, slicing through flesh already raw and torn, and John is sure he can hear the scrape of the knife as it scores the bone.

Sherlock has stopped screaming. He has his head thrown back, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the wood (Jim hasn’t broken them yet, so this must only be the second time; by the third time this happens, an hour or a day or two days later, he has). The noise he’s making isn’t one John has ever heard come from a human throat.

”Stop, please, just stop, don’t, no more, stop, please,” and it’s John speaking, his voice low and hoarse, wrecked, unfamiliar, “please Jim, I’ll come with you, just _stop this_ —”

”No, John,” Jim says, and it sounds like genuine sadness in his voice, “you won’t. Not yet,” and begins the looping _D_ again.

 

***

  


John has forced himself to watch everything—-everything—-Jim has done, but when he burns the flesh over Sherlock’s hip down to the bone (it isn’t far, of course, right under the skin, and isn’t that an absurd thought, it’s laughable, _mustn’t giggle_ ) John turns his eyes away. The smell tells him what he needs to know.

 

* * *

 

_You’re going to beg me to continue._

Jim is holding Sherlock’s nose and mouth closed, suffocating him with one hand, and Sherlock isn’t even really fighting it. Jim leans down close and looks up at John with those liquid eyes, heavy-lashed and hooded like a lover’s--

”Should I go on, Johnny boy? Keep my hand _just here_ and give your dear devoted friend some much-deserved rest?”

—- and John is ashamed that he’s crying, that he can hear himself saying “yes, please,” that he feels betrayed when Jim takes his hand away and he sees Sherlock’s shattered ribs begin to heave and struggle again, pulling in air.

 

***

  


They’ve been left alone for a time. John’s eyes are burning with spent tears. Sherlock is breathing and sobbing and they’re one thing—-have been one thing for hours now, or days—-and it takes John far too long to realise he’s saying his name in his new, toneless whisper of a voice.

”I’m sorry, John, I can’t….” And John hates himself for being glad Sherlock is too far gone to finish that sentence, hates himself for being relieved that he hasn’t been burdened with knowing what duty Sherlock thinks he owes him, even now.

 

***

  


Jim has a knife, and he is slicing long, looping lines down the soles of Sherlock’s feet.

”I’ve been practising, Johnny. Is it better today?”

 

* * *

  


_You’re going to show me that you’re mine_.

John isn’t prepared for it in the least when it finally happens.

It feels like the middle of the night; there’s cold air seeping up from the cement floor, and they’ve had enough time to themselves that Sherlock has fallen into the shivery, half-aware state that’s recently been substituting for sleep.

John hasn’t been sleeping, either. It doesn’t feel right to slip off into oblivion on his own, not if it means leaving Sherlock alone, so he stays awake and paces, fiddles with the chain; falls into elaborately lucid, open-eyed dreams. He’s doing just that—-twisting the chain and daydreaming about breaking Moriarty’s neck with his bare hands—-when there’s a snap and he looks down to discover the link has broken.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to process this information, sitting on the hard floor and holding the disconnected chain in his hand. He worries, first, that this might be part of the dream; second, that it isn’t and he’s about to be found out, that this will somehow make their situation worse.

Then he has two further thoughts, each singular and liberating: _this really can’t get worse,_ and _time to go_.

It isn’t, of course, quite that easy.

John climbs to his feet and stands for a long, hesitating moment, staring at Sherlock lying on the table.

Quite apart from the injuries (not something to be overlooked in any sane context, which this decidedly is not), getting Sherlock out of there would be a daunting task. The human body isn’t meant to hold one position for an extended period of time, and Sherlock hasn’ts been able to move more than an inch in any direction since Jim tightened the straps an eternity ago. John isn’t at all sure his muscles would be up to walking, and his feet-- well. Walking isn’t on the agenda in any case. The blindfold hadn’t been removed in all that time, either, and John doesn’t precisely know what that might mean for his friend’s eyesight, but he doubts it’s anything good. He hasn’t any clothes, and there’s still the matter of the padlocks on the straps, and the fact that Sherlock couldn’t hear him and likely doesn’t even know he’s there--

Breathe, John tells himself firmly.

What Sherlock needs are painkillers and an extended stay in hospital. What he has is one ex-army doctor who had long ago reached his breaking point and doesn’t have the slightest clue what he will encounter outside that room.

John looks at his hand. Steady. _One thing at a time, then_.

Sherlock, in a bit of brilliant timing that almost sets John off into a fit of nervous laughter, chooses that moment to piss himself. John considers it an apt commentary on the whole situation. It is also, abruptly, simply more than he can deal with at the moment.

He edges away from the table on feet that no longer seem connectted to the floor. He’ll do what he has to do first, he tells himself, and come back for him. He doesn’t let himself think about what might be required of him then.

John opens the door slowly and shakes his head in disbelief. He isn’t sure quite what he’d been expecting, but what he finds is enough of a surprise: they appear to be in the cellar of a perfectly ordinary house. He makes his way carefully up the stairs and pushes open the door at the top—-nothing locked; Jim’s become cocky—-and finds himself standing in a small, neat kitchen.

John, at that moment, loves kitchens. Kitchens are full of useful things like knives. A familiar-looking one had been left to soak in the sink; he grabs it, feeling his stomach twist.

He would have preferred his service weapon, but he’s sure this will do.

A familiar coil of anxiety settles at the base of his spine and John feels his head clear, clearer than it’s been in days. He parts the curtain and glances outside—dark village street, one car parked out front. John has a sudden feeling of certainty that this is where Jim from IT calls home, and wants to laugh.

He goes methodically, room by room, encountering no one, chain wrapped around his forearm to keep it quiet. One closed door upstairs. John knows who he’ll find there; the path in his head is so clear that he doesn’t even pause before turning the knob and letting it swing open.

There: Jim, sleeping in a perfectly ordinary bed like a perfectly ordinary person. He sits up when the door opens and John is somewhat gratified to see him shirtless, hair sleep-rumpled, _human_. But then he cocks his head and opens his dark eyes wide, staring at John, and the moment crumbles into nothing around them.

John is already at the side of the bed before the grin has finished stretching across Jim’s lips.

“Johnny, my dear—“ he’s saying when John grabs his hair and pushes his head forward, exposing the back of his neck. The knife slides in easily, like it belongs there, and it’s done.

John glances at the glowing red digits of the bedside clock. One-thirty. Plenty of time to do what needs to be done, then, assuming the others wouldn’t come back until morning.

 

* * *

 

_You’re going to beg me to let you kill him yourself._

John is leaning on Jim’s bathroom counter, looking at his face in the mirror. He looks like a stranger to himself, a stranger who hasn’t bathed (he hasn’t), has been sleeping on the floor (he has) in the same clothes (yes, those too) for an eternity (not quite, but near enough). It takes him far too long to notice the spray of blood along his neck and cheek, and he scrubs at it idly. It’s settled in the lines on his face.

He doesn’t try to wash the blood off his hands. There will be more, soon enough.

His mind is still clear. He’s trained for this. His hand isn’t shaking at all, and it angers him. He—-suddenly, violently—-doesn’t want to be the sort of person who’s trained for this.

He also doesn’t want to make his way back down the stairs to the nightmare scenario in the cellar, to the still figure there, but he does. No choice in any of it, really, so he might as well get on with things.

He grabs a new knife from the kitchen on his way down. It doesn’t feel right, somehow, to use the same one. The chain is heavy, making his leg ache, but he won’t have to drag it around much longer.

He stands at Sherlock’s side for a long time, looking down at the pale, battered body of his friend. It’s barely recognisable as belonging to the man he’s known. He suddenly can’t imagine Sherlock outside of this room, outside of this place. Can’t see him reacting with joy to an interesting new case, running through London, playing his violin. None of it seems possible anymore, and John’s chest aches with the loss.

Sherlock had tensed as he approached, and it’s suddenly very important to John that Sherlock realise it’s _him_ , that he’s finally managed to do something, however much John knows it’s far too little, far too late.

He crouches down so his mouth is almost touching Sherlock’s ear and whispers his name, slowly, reaching out just as slowly to set his thumb against a small, uninjured patch of skin on Sherlock’s shoulder.

There’s a pained, ragged intake of breath, a twist of the torn lip. “ _John_ ,” Sherlock breathes, sounding so relieved John wants to weep. He doesn’t. There will be time for that, but now he has a job to do.

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes back, even though he knows Sherlock can’t hear him, pressing his thumb in just a bit in acknowledgment.

Sherlock’s breath is coming faster, and there’s a long, painful swallow along the pale column of his throat, pressing against the leather holding him there. John wishes he’d taken the time to find the key to release the straps, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter.

”John, _please_ ,” Sherlock is saying, too breathless even for it to be a sob, “I can’t, John.” There’s a lump in John’s throat; this broken voice doesn’t belong to the Sherlock he knows. “I can’t… anymore. I know it doesn’t matter, but I don’t… want it to be him. Forgive me. It’s better if it’s you, John. _Please_.”

John stands, running his hand gently over the sweaty, matted curls on Sherlock’s head. He can hear Jim’s voice in his head and thinks, _did you know he would beg for it, too?_

His hand is steady.

He brings his right hand down to Sherlock’s chin and tips it back, slowly, with just enough pressure that together they hold it still. Sherlock gives the tiniest nod of acknowledgment against his fingertips. John sees the tightening of muscle at the corners of his abused mouth.

He has a decision to make, for both of them, and he prays it’s the right one.

He lifts the knife and positions it carefully, blade glinting as he slides it, gently, into place against the smooth throat.

 

* * *

 

John thinks, _this is going to hurt_. Then he says it aloud, because he would have said it to any other patient and what he needs just then is to remember that he’s a doctor.

Then: _it would be a kindness_ , which he doesn’t say though it’s probably true. But he’s the sort of man to stick by his choices once he’s made them, and he trusts Sherlock not to take this one away from him.

He can tell from the way Sherlock stiffens as the strap bites into the raw flesh of his throat that he still thinks John has chosen the other way, just for a moment. Then the leather falls open and they’re both shaking so much that John has to wait for what feels like a long time before he trusts himself to go on, sliding the knife against sensitive tissue, twisting to slice outward, cutting the restraints away one by one.

Sherlock twitches and whimpers when John frees his ankles; these marks are the worst, not as deep as the ones on his wrists and neck but swollen and hot with the beginnings of an infection, and John has to peel the leather out of the furrows it’s created. John inches his legs together, slowly enough that his own arms ache with the effort of supporting their weight, unwilling to leave Sherlock so exposed any longer. Sherlock groans as the muscles spasm but when it’s done he gives John a small nod and the ghost of a smile.

John thinks: _right decision, then_.

It feels like an eternity but eventually all that’s holding Sherlock down is the exhausted weight of his own trembling body. John can see the jump and twitch of muscles along his arms and knows Sherlock is trying to shift them, can see the frustrating chasm separating the urge to _move, now, anythinganywhereelse now rightnow_ from its translation into action. In another circumstance John would have been soothing him by rubbing the muscles and helping to bend the joints, but now there’s too much that’s still dangerous and exposed.

John has to leave him for a few minutes, to find blankets and a phone and make sure they still have time, and although it’s both necessary and logical it feels like cruelty. He wants to leave him with something before he goes; he touches the blindfold gently, asking with his fingertips, leaving this decision up to Sherlock. Sherlock hesitates only a moment before answering. “Off. I want to see, I— take it off.”

John cups his hands against the tape over Sherlock’s eyes, gently, and Sherlock nods. “I know, I’ll keep them closed,” he says, and the tension is back in his voice because there isn’t going to be any way to do this that isn’t frankly bloody awful, and they both know it.

It comes off, in the end. The newly-exposed skin is swollen and chafed, bleeding in patches from the pull of the tape. His eyes are puffy, gritted-shut and horrible looking, ringed by circles so dark they look bruised, but true to his word Sherlock keeps them closed. John runs the pads of his thumbs across the eyelids once, then stands, loops the chain around his forearm to get it out of the way, and switches off the light as he makes his way back toward the stairs.

The clock reads a few minutes past three a.m. Spurred by an impulse that he’ll probably mock himself for later, he climbs one more flight to check on Jim. He half expects to find the horror-movie cliché of an empty bed; but there’s his rapidly-cooling body in a dark puddle of blood, and John knows he won’t lose any sleep over it.

He passes the bathroom without looking in the mirror. He doesn’t want to see his own face; doesn’t want to know what Sherlock will read there.

 

* * *

 

He returns to the cellar with the handset to a cordless phone, a blanket, and some bottled water he found in the kitchen. Sherlock is where he left him, shivering as he squints and blinks up at the ceiling. John hadn’t switched the light back on, so the room is illuminated only faintly by what trickles in from the now-open upstairs door; it seems that Sherlock’s eyes will need some time to adjust to even that small amount of light.

John drapes the blanket over Sherlock, carefully settling its weight across damaged skin, and the low _thank you_ he utters sounds so sincere that John thinks hearing it might break him to pieces.

Instead, John holds the phone where Sherlock can see it. “Lestrade?” he asks with an exaggerated movement of his lips that takes Sherlock only a moment to decipher.

Sherlock shakes his head slightly, grimacing at the movement. “No. Mycroft.” As concessions go, it’s a big one. “What about Jim?”

Both of them ignore the way Sherlock’s voice catches on the name. ”Dead,” is all he says. Sherlock’s eyes slide across John’s face, noting the blood there, and he nods.

“Good. But. Are we still—” He swallows. “Do we need to move now?”

John frowns, considering. Sherlock looks so thoroughly drained he barely seems present, and he’s still having trouble focusing his eyes. John knows they should be hurrying, but it has all been so long already; he thinks Sherlock needs the reprieve almost as much as he needs medical attention, and perhaps with more urgency altogether. He shakes his head.

“Then, can it wait? It’s just… I’d like to….”

John waits, but Sherlock doesn’t finish his sentence. His pale eyes are fixed on John’s face, waiting for an answer. “Ten minutes,” John says, finally, and even though he has misgivings Sherlock accepts it like a gift.

”Thank you,” Sherlock says again, and begins to cry.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft answers the phone on the second ring and, to his credit, doesn’t ask questions; he simply agrees to “make the necessary arrangements” and tells John to expect the arrival of a private ambulance in just over an hour. He praises John for his resourcefulness in thinking to call from a landline and promises that he’ll see them himself shortly.

Then, after a long, delicate pause, he asks: “Is there anything you require for yourself, Dr Watson?”

John wonders just how strained his own voice must sound. He licks his lips, considering, and looks down at his ankle. “A locksmith, if you can turn one out at this hour.” Mycroft makes a _hmm_ sound that could have meant anything but is probably just annoyance that John is asking him for something that could be procured with a phone directory. “And… there’s a body.”

”I see. Yes. Yes, of course,” comes the reply in a clipped voice that doesn’t quite match the words, and it’s Mycroft who disconnects the call.

John sets down the phone and turns back to Sherlock. His tears had stopped as soon as John moved to place the call; when John exaggeratedly mouths _one hour_ Sherlock’s acknowledgement seems calm enough, on its surface, but the edges are fraying rapidly.

John can see the slight movements of the blanket as Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, the agitation in his face; having attained some small degree of relief he’s dreading that it might be taken away or, worse, that it might continue to be _not enough_ , that the pain and immobility might go on indefinitely. When Sherlock finally says _John_ with the edge of rising panic in his hoarse voice, John decides that he’s had altogether too much of sitting by and watching and begins, slowly, to work the muscles of Sherlock’s arm, willing to ignore the slow seep of blood from freshly-opened wounds as long as Sherlock does.

”Are you all right?” Sherlock’s eyes are open and flicking over John’s face, running down his body, and John thinks it’s likely a measure of how far gone he is that it’s taken him this long to ask.

John answers as truthfully as he can. ”I will be when we’re out of here.” Sherlock seems to grasp his meaning even if he doesn’t follow the words.

Then Sherlock is frowning at the far wall and his breathing is coming faster, too fast. “You were here,” he says, and for a second John thinks he hears a note of accusation in the low voice, but when Sherlock goes on he realises it was just confusion. “I thought it was a trade, but you’ve been— The whole time. John. _John_. But. You aren’t hurt.”

John nods. Sherlock is trying, shakily, to grasp John’s wrist; John eases his arm back down and rests his palm lightly along the back of Sherlock’s hand. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, forcing his face into what he hopes is a calming smile.

Sherlock’s breathing hasn’t slowed. John can practically see his mind racing backward; revising his understanding of events, wondering what else he’d missed, considering the implications of John having seen and heard everything that had happened. Finally Sherlock’s eyes still enough that John can catch his gaze.

”You’ll tell me,” Sherlock says, and it’s a question, so John nods. There’s a long pause, then: “You’ll stay with me?” John nods again, not knowing whether Sherlock means for the moment or more existentially but agreeing to both, and goes back to his work.

That’s how Mycroft’s team find them: John sitting on the edge of the table with his hands on Sherlock’s right arm, so intent on the sensations at his fingertips that he thinks he can actually feel the minute snapping of the overworked fascia as he massages movement back into the limb. John knows it hurts—-Sherlock is shivering and sweating with it-—but every time he looks up at the shadowed face Sherlock urges him on, and by the time the paramedics arrive Sherlock can lift his arm enough to flap broken fingers at them in greeting.

Two men who are obviously not part of the medical team are looking at John pointedly, and John knows what they are there to do.

John angles his head so Sherlock can’t read his lips. “Upstairs,” he says, and one of them nods, “and there will likely be two more arriving soon.” The man nods again, and they’re gone. Not for the first time, John is both repulsed by and grateful for Mycroft’s version of the British government.

One of the paramedics is asking Sherlock a question, over and over. Sherlock isn’t answering. “He can’t hear you,” John says in irritation, which earns him a puzzled look, just as the lights flick on. Sherlock groans and squeezes his eyes tightly shut, turning his head to try to bury his face in the harsh surface of the table.

”We need to examine him,” one of the paramedics says to John in a carefully reasonable tone. And he’s right-—they’re just doing their jobs—-but John feels a sudden rush of anger that this is the position they’re in, all of them, forced to cause pain before they can ameliorate it.

He would like, very much, to smash something.

Instead, John runs his fingers through the dark hair in a gesture of reassurance, listening to Sherlock’s breathing grow more ragged in reaction to being thrust back into the dark. “His eyes need time to adjust,” John says, trying to keep his voice neutral. It isn’t fair to expect them to know what he hasn’t told them, but he can feel the hand at his side clenched into a fist at the unthinking ease with which this indignity has been added to all the others.

When no one moves, he snaps, ”Turn it _off_ ,” and the light grow dim again.

”We’re going to need to move him,” the paramedic continues, with a hesitation that implies a question. John looks up to see the man holding a small, standard-issue case containing the rudimentary injectables.

Sedatives and painkillers. Good idea. Necessary, even. “Better with his permission, if we can get it,” he says. “Give me a minute.”

Sherlock sees the expression on John’s face and gives a small, shaky laugh. “Stop looking at me like I’m going to argue. I can assure you that I’m not.” He turns to the paramedic. “Only if Doctor Watson comes with me.”

”Yeah, that’s your brother’s instruction, too,” he says in reply, and John is glad Sherlock can’t hear it. Sherlock is watching him, expectantly, so John gives him a smile of affirmation.

”In that case,” Sherlock says in a voice so exhausted it’s barely a whisper, “I’ll take some of whatever’s in that syringe. Sooner, I think, being rather preferable to later.” He looks up at John as the needle slides into his arm. “Tell them what you have to. And… be there.”

A door opens upstairs and John can hear what sound like two voices, raised in argument. There are the sounds of a scuffle that might have lasted all of twenty seconds, a pair of muffled gunshots, and two thuds in quick succession. _Thank you, Mycroft_ , John thinks, resolving to have his mental health looked into at the earliest opportunity. Around them the paramedics shift uneasily, looking upward, but John doesn’t let his eyes leave Sherlock’s as he slides into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

After that it’s all a flurry of practised, precise motion. Sherlock’s body is lifted from the table, temporary bandages fastened over the worst of the visible wounds and the newly-exposed sores that have developed from sustained contact with the hard surface, and placed onto a gurney for transport upstairs.

A locksmith appears, as promised. There’s nothing pleasant about the task of sawing the cuff off John’s ankle and it feels like it might never end, but John clenches his jaw and averts his gaze and eventually the hated thing falls heavily to the floor. The state of his skin underneath is alarming, even to him, but he shakes his head impatiently at the paramedic who appears at his shoulder.

Now that they’re so close the urge to get out of that place is overwhelming. He takes the steps two at a time and settles into place beside Sherlock’s body in the back of the ambulance with a feeling of intense relief.

 

* * *

True to his word, Mycroft had made excellent arrangements for Sherlock’s recovery. He even pulled some strings to get John practising privileges at the facility. This allows John to direct his care, though John’s first decision as director is to delegate the more complex tasks to specialists. Sherlock spends the better part of three days unconscious while they work to repair the most immediately-pressing damage to his body and John gets rest how and where he can.

When Sherlock wakes, anxious and disoriented, groggily trying to pull the IV lines out of his arm, John is there to still his hand.

 

* * *

 

They stay there for a little over a month while Sherlock recovers from the worst of the damages. It’s a tedious and painful process (“In _that order_ , John, yes,” Sherlock insists when John tries to get him to do the hand exercises that might, eventually, enable him to play the violin again). He still has visible scars, of course—-some all-too-visible—-but he can mostly move like he used to. He’s regained all of his hearing in one ear and most of it in the other, and the audiologist isn’t ruling out a full recovery there, either, though the longer the hearing loss persists the less optimistic it looks. He can walk greater distances with each passing day, although standing in one place is painful and running still nearly impossible, the scar tissue on his feet not having had sufficient time to stretch to accommodate the movement required.

John catalogues Sherlock’s physical progress obsessively, turning it over and over in his mind like it means something.

 _Doesn’t it?_ he asks himself, and can’t seem to find an answer.

Psychologically, too, Sherlock is almost back to normal (or what passed for normal where he’s concerned). The first two weeks had been bad, with nightmares and restlessness and a constant need for John’s presence. For a while he wouldn’t let John turn the light off, even to sleep, but by the time they’re ready to leave the hospital Sherlock is able to tolerate a darkened room as long as he isn’t covered by a blanket or sheet heavy enough to feel encumbering.

The nightmares persist, but between the pain medication and the physical requirements of recovery Sherlock has been sleeping more than any other point in his adult life, and he’s learned to accommodate them out of sheer frequency. He often wakes with a gasp or a shout, but even in the midst of panic Sherlock’s mind is still its impossibly logical self; as long as there’s a physical clue that he isn’t _back there_ —-if he isn’t twisted in the sheet or if he can see or hear someone in the hallway or if John answers him—-he’s able to calm down fairly quickly.

John sits by Sherlock’s bedside, night after night, waiting to be needed. John is a doctor, and a soldier, and his hand won’t stop shaking.

When he allows himself to sleep he dreams of endless sand, of fellow-soldiers bleeding out under his hand, and sometimes the soldiers have Sherlock’s face. Or he dreams a scene exactly as in his memory—-the time Bonsall had his toes blown off and had limped over to John, holding two of them in his hand—-only to look up and see Jim, sneering, saying, “He’s here for _you_.”

He dreams of a young soldier he’d known only as Peter, who’d run out of the mountains with another soldier on his back. “He’s hurt,” Peter kept shouting, “he’s hurt,” but when they’d finally been separated--they’d come a long way and had to be peeled apart, glued skin to skin by blood and piss and sweat--it was Peter who was bleeding. “I tried to drop him,” he’d whispered desperately, clutching at the front of John’s shirt as the sedatives started to pull him under, “but he wouldn’t let go,” and laughed himself into unconsciousness.

(Peter had later received a medal for his bravery, and died; John didn’t know in which order.)

No one in that dream wears any faces at all.

So John wakes from one battlefield to another; he throws himself into Sherlock’s recovery, makes pot after pot of coffee, sitting up late into the night and often refusing to sleep at all. Keeps a sleepless vigil because he can do nothing else.

War and medicine have made John an important man; he knows what to do with the tangibility of Sherlock’s flesh and blood and bone. But Jim had made him not only important but significant--the sort of man _for_ whom, rather than _to_ whom, things happened--and with it comes a futility so thick he thinks it might choke him.

 _Yes,_ John tells himself, hand clenched so tightly around his mug that it’s very nearly still, _Sherlock is going to be fine._

 

* * *

 

It’s their last afternoon in the ward before returning to Baker Street. Sherlock is sitting on the edge of his bed, packing up the cold case files Lestrade had brought by to serve as sickbed reading. John had stepped out for another cup of coffee, and pauses just outside the doorway to thank one of the doctors with whom he’d grown close during their time there.

”Don’t mention it, John,” she says, smiling. She has a lovely smile, all white teeth and so thoroughly lacking in malice that, just for a moment, John finds it disconcerting. “He’s doing very well. I hope he knows how lucky he is to have a friend like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dream John has about Peter is a rough adaptation of the beginning of Amos Oz's _A Perfect Peace_.
> 
> This is the end, really. I promise. If you read chapter 2, it's just the originally-posted version.
> 
> Many, many thanks to [thesardine](thesardine.livejournal.com) for all her help in reworking this.


End file.
